The following written by May I Cum On Ya is a work of fiction based on true events, with the names replaced or swapped, and then possibly returned to their original owners. The author reserves the right to embellish, obfuscate, equivocate or outright lie to make all parties sound as interesting or as innocent as the statute of limitations requires. Fictitious scapegoats may be added to further blur reality from the real ongoings of the attendees and their guests. ON ON!

This week’s trail began at Anthony’s Saloon & Crab House. They serve tasty crabs and refreshing suds at a reasonable price. If you don’t like their crabs then talk to one of the barflies and see if they can’t scare you up a different variety. There was a light drizzle as hashers began arriving to the prelube. As they entered a grinning Shop N Fuck greeted them with a hug and then forced them to draw a straw. Unlike the usual butthole puckering straw trail this one was a Shop N Fuck straw trail which means all straws are full length [compensating much?]. Shop was just trying to spook people, but instead of roping anyone into haring, Shop had planned to hare himself all along. If Shop were any sweeter we’d all have diabetes, and if Shop were any cleaner we all could have skipped a trip to that free clinic [fool me once, shame on Shop, fool me three or four times and I guess I should invite Shop to Thanksgiving dinner to meet the family and maybe get him on my insurance while that’s still possible with the current political climate].

We had one visitor, Pussyfoot from Taiwan H3. He’s also from several other kennels, but I was elected to On Sec for my cunning linguistics, not my memory. After Shop explained to him the hashmarks Shop took off and made us sing “Jesus Saves” with at least 10 verses in order to give himself enough time to start laying trail in the ever increasing rain. “Jesus Saves” is a staple hash song and quite tame by hash standards but what it lacks in crudeness it makes up for in length and girth. For the Christians, you can see their trepidation in singing anything bad about Jesus, like he’s going to smite them for every lewd verse they sing about him like they're summoning Bloody Mary or the Candyman or some other vengeful spirit [why believe in an angry diety?, as Cal Naughton Jr would agree, "I like to think of Jesus like, with giant eagles’ wings and singin’ lead vocals for Lynyrd Skynyrd with like an Angel Band, and I’m in the front row, and I’m hammered drunk"] For Non Christians, after three or four verses it starts to feel like you’ve been tricked into going to your friend’s church ceremony when you thought you were just going out for some bottomless mimosas [Do I eat the wafer to blend in and keep things moving along, or abstain and high five the guy with the tallest hat? How much of the wine can I drink before the deacon cuts me off?].

After 10 or 11 verses we made our way through the streets and rain zigzagging until we arrived upon the Shot Near under a highway overpass. The drink of choice was Malort. It originates in Chicago and was concocted by a Swedish immigrant who presumably was chased out of his village for trying to poison them with this swill. It gives swill a bad name; this is a hate from the old days. The stuff that vikings would give their traitors and cowards before giving them a blood eagle and setting them on fire. For those that haven’t had it before it tastes like the worst medicine you’d ever had as a child and the aftertaste lingers about as long as a scarring childhood memory. It tastes like nail polish remover smells. The aftertaste lingers longer than herpes, and tastes worse than the aftertaste from vomiting. I’ve never eaten feces, but imagine that social stigma and medical risks aside, Malort tastes worse and the psychic trauma lasts longer.

Trail began winding through the streets of South Philly with the rain and wind increasing and the occasional thunder clap. It was a warm, pleasant rain in the high 70s. The drizzle eventually picked up to where it was a torrential downpour. We ran through the rain with the pack stretching out to keep track of all those that were running. At times we got spread out enough to where it was unclear where everyone might be going. We had worked our way into the industrial area by the highways. This is a warren for clandestine Beer Nears or spots to drop a body. There are also lots of strip clubs.

The rain was so heavy that visibility dropped down to less than 100 feet. In the foggy deluge a glorious beacon of light could be seen, the Pennsport Pub. Now some of us fine upstanding citizens have never been to a strip club, but we’ve heard stories. Young women that are working their way through med school that are crafty enough to find an easy way to pay for tuition. Cold hard cash from halfwits that will empty their wallets at the barest hint of a nipple. Pennsport is a lovely dive bar that also has three naked women that take turns disrobing on a stage no larger than a coffee table, but what they lack in quantity of dancers they make up for in quality...and costumes. There were more wardrobe changes than an awards show host, but these were fun and exciting.

After spending the better part of an hour watching the Eagles trounce the Giants we were getting ready to leave the pub and make our way back to Anthony’s when a brand new ingenue took the stage. Gritty the muppet took the stage. She apparently has gotten a part time job as a mascot for the Flyers (holy fuck they must be desperate), but her main income stream comes from dancing (and from the extras she offers to regular patrons that she’s determined aren’t vice cops). I refer to her with feminine pronouns because its a strip club, but honestly I haven’t asked her and when she was flashing her bits during the dollar parade I couldn’t make anything out. It looks like a damp shag carpet for which people never took their shoes off when trodding upon. Life is hard for most muppets, only the presentable ones ever get a chance to live on Sesame Street.

​As I’ve written of before (see BFM #747: Jumbo Jet Propelled true believers!) Billy Penn spent several decades having sex with hand puppets. While it started as an innocent way to not cheat on his wife it slowly devolved into a macabre spectacle that would revolt and terrify Mary Shelley herself. Masturbating into a sock does not impart the sock with life, but something happens after you pump life into a hand puppet numerous times. It’s not easy being green...or gooey. What’s worse is that he had his servants work the hand puppets while he was in the act (hence the term handmaiden, dark times...). When a puppet was so crusty that it could no longer move he would have it dumped in the swamps of South Philly. Years of this grotesque procession led to a heap out in the swamps of South Philly.

One night the pile was struck by lightning and life was breathed into these poor creatures. It was a hard life for the early muppets. They were borne of colonial nobility, but try to explain that to a person of that time period. Billy Penn had created so many that he eventually had to take care of them. Those that could speak and weren’t too frightening were shipped up to Langhorne and housed in Sesame Place where they would be fed three meals a day and were given a place to sleep in exchange for entertaining the local children. Those that were rougher around the edges made their way through the world as sports mascots or worse. Like the professional wrestling circuit, these creatures would abuse their bodies to make ends meet and have a chance at the big show, but not everyone can make it to the top and even those that do are haunted by the things they had to do to get there. Elmo was never asked before the tickling started and Snuffy the Snuffalupagus has a 50K a week cocaine habit [‘I need my fix, Bird! I’ll get the money, Bird, please just give me a little bit for now, I’ll do all those things you like, Bird!’]

For what seemed like an eternity Gritty danced and topped it all off with her trademark champagne glass flip. Then just as suddenly as she had arrived she left with her boyfriend/manager. He’s a green mean phanatic with a history of violence such as killing minor league mascot Phiney the Shark [Let Tommy Lasorda try to fight him these days].

After Pennsport Pub the hashers zig zagged a bit more through the rain until they arrived back at Anthony’s.

While circle was going on one of the beer soaked locals came over and starting dancing to one of our songs. We tried to coax him closer, but he was startled when he heard the Giants actually made a completion and retreated to the bar and the Eagles game [it was an interception...and its a rebuilding year, I’m not crying, you’re crying...it’s a rebuilding year!]

A super friendly bartender brought us a pitcher and joined in a round of accusations.

Accusations

Pussyfoot accused Magically Delicious for running trail with a hard-on the entire time [I don’t know if running with an aircast is super tough or super crazy, but as a part time ambulance chaser it ruins any chance we could have had bilking her insurance company for millions.]

Groundhog Lay accused Not In My Hair for giving him a dollar instead of to the strippers.

Sphincter Grease accused the hare Shop N Fuck for making the SN a bottle of Malort. Second worst thing he’d taste that night after volunteering to drink out of Magically Delicious’s boot [a new shoe is a new shoe]

Not In My Hair accused Shop N Fuck of having the dirtiest trail in ages with Malort and a Strip Club.

Sex Toys For Tots accused MICOY of trying to pay the strippers with BFM business cards [in my defense those IOUs written on the back are as good as money. Every cent is accounted for; go ahead and add them up...]

The night was capped nicely as Magically Delicious celebrated her hashy birthday by having a Side Side (with ShopNFuck, the compulsive sweetie pie, trying to catch any spillage to keep Anthony’s cleaner and the bartender’s night easier). It's unclear if her aircast got tied to her sneaker, but I’m sure the pack tried their darnedest.

I know what you’re thinking as you click this link. Why did I have to get so drunk on the Thursday hash I had to miss this! What kind of once in a lifetime adventures did I miss out on? What inside jokes will I not get the next hash? Well, tuck in my lazy cums-latelys, this was not a hash to have missed.

So there I was all comfy, drinking a beer on my friend’s back porch when I suddenly remember… it’s the Full Moon Hash!! I quickly jumped in an Uber and watched time quickly tick by as we crawl our way towards center city. Finally we get close enough and I jumped out into traffic yelling what I hope was an appreciative goodbye to my perplexed driver. Hustling to the bar I made it to the third floor and it was all worth the effort. Surveying the room I knew we were in for an epic night.

The pack chilled in the bar for a while before realizing we probably should, you know, do trail? Our illustrious hare, Silence of the Goats, set out to lay trail with the hash close behind. The trail was at a pace never before experienced in the hash with twists and turns no hasher could have prepared for.

The pack started strong though and before long we came along the BN. Unfortunately the space had been compromised with security guarding the street and aiding the confused locals with PPA’s confusing technology. Silence of the Goats attempted to bribe them with libations but their morals were too high. We quietly tucked our beers away and slunk off to a less judgy corner to enjoy them like a true hash beer should be enjoyed. Warm and in an alley full of dumpsters. But it wasn’t all trash and fabulousness. There was also an educational component as the hashers learned some local history of the women’s rights movement, because yo, we smart.

But that got boring real fast and off we went… for like a few blocks. Stopping suddenly the pack perked up. Was that…. Someone singing? The sweet sound of beers being opened? A dark doorway leading to what will probably be a night not remembered? SOLD! Tucking ourselves into the corner with some hard earned beers we got comfy as we waited for LIVE BAND KARAOKE*. And that siren must have been quite powerful because before long the pack was joined by some starry-eyed autohashers – Shup and Fuck, Sex Toys for Tots, AssAssination, Just Gabriel, and Parks and Masterbation

Notable accusations:Okay, technically there wasn’t circle, because we never quite find the exit that night…. (We’re actually all still here, I’m writing this from the bathroom -send help!!). BUT! If there had been I’m pretty sure these would have been featured:​-Silence of the Goats commended for her excellent performance, putting the siren to shame-Sex toys for Tots for trying to compare this physique to a bronze statue in the corner?-Just Gabriel was commended for, let’s be real, not being too scared of us the night before and actually coming back?-Tech dudes for not knowing how to make the karaoke work. Like, you had one jobAnd probably others, but I can’t stay in this bathroom forever. Wish us luck!!

*Are you curious where this magical place is that has live band karaoke?? Well I guess you should have come out to hash…. (Also, I like, absolutely don’t remember what this place is called, even though I’ve been there several times before).

The hounds assembled at El Bar in preparation for another trail laid by these two hares. The pair had again promised to get the hounds tipsy and wet, and it seemed a good promise indeed as the shanty town cover of El Bar’s backyard allowed a light rain to fall on our heads. This reminded me of a Barenaked Ladies song (Brian Wilson) because I… “Drove downtown in the rain, Seven-Thirty on a Thursday night, Just to check-out the BFM trail of chalk.Call it impulsive, Call it compulsive, Call it insane, But when I'm ON-ON I just can't stop.It's a matter of instinct. A matter of conditioning and a matter of fact. You can call me Pavlov's Dog.Ring a bell and I'll salivate. How'd you like that? Mr. Franklin tell me you're not just a muggle at all.'Cause right now I'm running a trail. Just like Ben Franklin did.Well I am running a trail. Just like Ben Franklin did.” Anyway, none of us paid much mind to the weather as most fun is better when wet. The hounds greeted each other sharing tales of the week and pre-lube beverages (except for Just Rob who had left his ID behind and was denied access to the bar). Jewels regaled us about his love of jello shots and how he, “shoved them all in his mouth”, a claim that might be hard to swallow. Shop led us all out to chalk talk where no chalk was found and used leftover flour to provide an impromptu description of the marks we “might” find on the trail. We were also re-introduced to the returners and officially met the virgins. We found out that Daddy May I Pun made Just Bill come and he was so excited about it that he almost kissed Shop! It was quite the moment to witness! Also, even though she was of legal age, Just Gabrielle was made to come (very willingly) by Statutory Consent. There is news at the BFM! Before we were released for the hunt, the hounds identified a game for the night. Two slap-on wristbands were given out to play tag with. If you slapped the band onto another hound, that hound was now it and could not tag you back but had to seek a new target. All of trail was fair game from ON-OUT until ON-IN with beer/shot checks as the only designated “safe spaces”. Now moist with excitement and precipitation, both the game and the pack was afoot. Trail began down Front street and the hounds were immediately drawn in by the game. The only real struggle was keeping the wrist band erect long enough to reach out and tag someone, but the excitement of the game and learning curve of the bands quickly overcame the issue and many erections were had! Marks were found, checks were solved, and all was well until the pack went NO-NO through a parking garage and everything went awry. Prolapse hydroplaned over a jersey barrier for a spectacular hash crash much to the chagrin of Just Andrew who dressed very consciously in his best “Safety Sam” reflective vest. Even after the pack identified their backwards trail mistake, both Groundhog Lay and Judge Doody got trapped behind a fence and had to take a long-cut back on. Thankfully we had come to a song check and Groundhog-Doody gave us ample time for verses of “Free Beer for the Hashers”. The song was finally ended when Groundhog arrived and proclaimed that “Jesus can’t run trail ‘cause he isn’t really real”. For the record I was raised Catholic and prefer “The ladies all love Jesus ‘cause they know he’ll come again.” (especially that saucy Mary Magdalene). But I respect Groundhog’s un-missionary position. Trail continued under I-95 and we found our favorite mark. BN!!!! The drink of choice was appropriately staged by our playful hares at the playground in Penn Treaty Park. Now safe from being tagged, the pack relaxed and shared stories. We discovered that Just Stephanie is a rule-follower, heard tell of when MICOY tried to get into a bar with wet sharts of newspaper at a previous anything-but-clothes trail, and watched StatC kung-fu grapple a beer away from a jittery Jewels. GML and Shop compared chalk sizes, arguing size over usability and GML belittled Penn’s obelisk in the start of many phallic references of the evening. Lastly the pack posed for a photo on the faux-rocks before trail was once again on. We ran past a giant cock to a song check where the musically well-endowed International Dicklomat sang us a song about Chinese abortions while Just Andrew pushed back on the wood pole presented before us. Soon the pack found our second favorite mark. SN!!! Where’s My D was so happy to remark “Give me that magical juice in my stomach” and Just Gabrielle also rejoiced for she doesn’t mind getting a little drunk. It was getting late so a quick shot stop it was. Taking after DancingFool, we collected some litter to properly deposit on our way out and disappeared into the night without a trace. As the pack ran along a long block wall back in the direction of the bar we celebrated our fun, but unfortunately the calls of the hounds disrupted the focus of adults playing kickball so they greeted us with less than brotherly verbal love. Their juvenile antics were short lived because we reached the ON-IN and produced proper ID to re-enter the bar (except of course for Just Rob). We assembled for circle, passed around tall PBRs to use for sip-sips, and celebrated with each other the revelry of the trail just completed. At this point a bouncer of El Bar (who we shall refer to as El Silencio) asked us to keep our volume down due to El Bar’s unfriendly neighbors. Oh, did he have the wrong group! It was shortly after this that Where’s My D lived up to her very befitting name and shouted from the street “HEY GUYS! I LEFT MY ID THERE! CAN SOMEBODY FIND AND BRING ME MY ID!” She was of course immediately shushed as El Silencio flashed us his most disapproving look. Once D had finally entered the circle we began festivities which were remarkable in that Cuff Me was by far the loudest among us. It was honestly spectacular to hear the songs sung in whispers of perfect clarity. Notable accusations were: to Prolapse of Judgement for denying first-aid after his crash and rather opting to pour a shot on it, to Shop N’ Fuck-It for forgetting hasher’s names, to Willie for being our daddy (maybe, Maury does not have the test results in yet), to Where’s My D for supposing that knowing the name of the cat who peed on the tarp made it any less gross, and to Gay Matthews Lamb for celebrating the violation of a bar closet with marriage! If you missed this trail, don’t miss another! Come out next Thursday, any Thursday, or every Thursday to be a little part of our Big Fucking Mess!